


Making Merry

by TeaCub90



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Affection, Christmas Party, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Family Fluff, Kisses, Mistletoe, Multi, Parenthood, Platonic Life Partners, Post-Season/Series 04, Prompt: The more the merrier, the gang's all here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21781150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: 221b is absolutely packed this year.Written for the 'more the merrier' prompt in the 2019 Advent Challenge.
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 51
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	Making Merry

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T for one slight swear-word; but mainly G for endless, unrepentant fluff.

* * *

‘You alright?’ John asks in a quiet tone as the pair of them gamely bustle in and out of the kitchen with nibbles; Mrs Hudson’s hip is getting on a little bit and their various hijinks did manage to get 221b blown up just over a year ago, they reckon she’s due a break and Sherlock looks up, balancing a tray of canapes on his flat palm with panache, almost caught by the question.

‘Hm? Oh, yes. Yes, John.’

He presents the tray on a spare footstool in the lounge, brought in by their guests in the interests of extra seating. 221b is absolutely packed this year, to the point where they’ve actually had to open the windows to let in some much-needed, cooling air, despite the chill of the night that leaves condensation, damp and dripping, on the glass.

Inside, though, is the picture of do-it-yourself loveliness; the tree, the redness of decorations, the Father Christmas hat on the skull. Lestrade and Molly, keeping an eye on Rosie by the fire, too wound up by the prospect of company to sleep and dragging her teddy-bear and stuffed bee around after her, looking suitably adorable in her tiny pyjamas and dressing-gown as she gabbles at the guests; Mummy and Daddy Holmes, having shanghaied one of the chairs, both sipping sherry and laughing with Mrs Hudson; and Mike Stamford (who couldn’t make the wedding but somehow managed to make this impromptu little shindig) who’s gamely, congenially chatting with James Sholto and a somewhat startled-but-trying-hard-to-hide-it-looking Mycroft.

(‘I have to forgive him, John,’ Sherlock said quietly with a shrug, a few weeks on from Eurus, from Sherrinford, from holding a gun to his own chin. ‘He did his best. I have to.’

_You don’t **have** to forgive him, you don’t have to do **anything** you don’t want to,_ John wanted to protest, to shout from the rooftops even, but then he thought of himself, thought of Sherlock, looked at the new keys to 221b, freshly-cut, in his own hand and decided, in the end, not to say anything at all).

‘All good in here?’ John asks the room at large – gets a mixture of _Yays_ and _yeses_ and raised glasses (and a raised eyebrow from Mycroft, along with a rather noticeable gulp of sherry). He trails after Sherlock, back to the open kitchen doorway and blinks as something brushes against his friend’s head.

‘Sherlock…’ he glances upwards at the offending decoration hanging over the kitchen door. Okay, maybe not offending, it’s just a plant, but definitely unfamiliar. ‘Did _you_ put that up?’

‘Hm?’ Distracted, a bottle of Shloer in his hand, Sherlock glances upwards. ‘Oh. No, John. I don’t usually hang up mistletoe.’

‘Well. Somebody did and it wasn’t me,’ John frowns, going to stand next to him. His first thought was that perhaps it would be Mary – but of course. Of course. Gone now, for a while. He glances sideways, almost apologetically at the photo they keep of her, up on the mantlepiece, radiant and smiling and fond among the tinsel.

_You silly bugger,_ her eyes seem to say and he shrugs; drags himself back to the present, to the now, surrounded by the people they love and admire and tolerate.

‘Maybe Mrs Hudson put it there.’ Sherlock is frowning, as though unconvinced by his own hypothesis. John glances sideways at their landlady, crowing with glee over something Mrs Holmes is saying. Unable to stay standing for too long, these days; loves to stay active, but sometimes, needs to sit down. And this mistletoe has been tied extremely expertly. 

‘Maybe,’ he echoes, no more convinced than Sherlock is; behind them, Molly is showing Rosie the sparkly engagement ring on her finger while Lestrade beams indulgently, the very picture of a man who knows he is going to marry a fantastic, clever, beautiful woman in the spring and is giving himself full permission to feel like a smug bastard about it. Rosie gives a caught little ‘Oooooh!’ of admiration, reaching out to tentatively touch the diamond, eyes soft with wonder at something so glittery.

‘Hm.’ Sherlock is still eyeing the mistletoe with something close to criticism. ‘Typical I suppose, of these romantic types.’

He casts another eye around the room and John can’t help but stifle a laugh; in the woodland of their various friends and family – well, Sherlock’s family at least, Harry never shows up to these things and it’s been so long now that he can’t really blame her for not being comfortable enough, much as he would wish otherwise – romance is definitely A Bit of a Thing. The Holmes parents clearly dote on one another, as do Molly and Lestrade (and how glad he is, for both of them; can’t even bring himself to feel anything close to envy when he looks at them, these two wonderful people who tumbled into one another and then looked at each other again and realised, _oh hello._ He made a mess of his own marriage and he still managed to find a happy ending; they’re well overdue for their own).

‘Typical,’ he agrees; their conversation is a quiet one, compared to all the hubbub and it’s quite odd that they can stand before the room and have a near-private talk. It’s nice, though; they sometimes don’t get enough moments like this, not these days. ‘Good for diversity though. Biodiversity.’

He cracks a grin at the look on Sherlock’s face as he gestures towards their own diverse company; at Mike gaily offering Mycroft one of the mince-pies on his plate and Sholto leaning down to allow a fascinated Rosie to poke and prod in curiosity at his scar. Being a medic does mean passing research on such a plant, and well. He does love to show off a bit when he can, even if he’s telling Sherlock what he already knows.

Sherlock, for his part, rolls his eyes. ‘It’s a female plant,’ he declares, drawing himself up on his intellectual britches. ‘This one has berries.’

‘Hm. So it does.’ John chuffs and then decides to simply disregards the mystery altogether; it’s not all that important in the long run and sensing a Wikipedia-type lecture coming on, chooses to neatly sidestep it by reaching out with both hands to pull Sherlock into a hug instead.

‘Is this okay?’ he checks; they’re being watched, he knows, but sod it; there’s nobody here he doesn’t trust (more or less, anyway) and honestly? He’d much rather be known for being affectionate than…any of the other stuff he’s been over the past few years, all those bad days that made him the worst version of himself. This feels much nicer. Kinder.

Sherlock hums, nods; cups John’s face gently, fearlessly heedless of the eyes upon them and plants a kiss on his forehead, right between his eyes. John gasps out a laugh, surprised but not displeased (clever lips against his brain, against his slow, stupid brain that he’s been learning to use properly again after making some catastrophically idiotic choices with it and Sherlock still loves it; loves him) and tilts up on tiptoe to press a soft, dry kiss to the side of Sherlock’s cheek. When in Rome, after all. Or Baker Street – Christmas. Whatever, it’s tradition.

‘Me!’ Rosie scatters across in a trail of toys, jumps up and down by their feet, arms raised, determined not to be left out. ‘Me too, p’ease!’

‘Yes, you too, please,’ Sherlock echoes, handing the bottle of Shloer off to the closest pair of hands – which happen to be his own father’s – before he and John both scoop Rosie up between them, a team as ever, holding her securely within the fortress of two sets of arms, settling her on the shared seat-sleeves of one purple shirt and one extremely vibrant Christmas jumper, listening to her giggle with delight.

‘The more the merrier,’ John agrees gamely as they both lean in at the same time to kiss her on either side of the head, not because there’s an enraptured audience offering _oohs _and _aahs _of quiet delight to watch them – he’s glad they approve of their little trio, he’s just never been comfortable with being the centre of attention – but just because they _can._ Because life’s too short – far too short – not to share joy and happiness and affection with the people you love.

Because despite everything that’s happened, he’s still – against all the odds – managed to have a family.

Rosie, for her part, huffs with delight, looking from one of her fathers to the other in decided concentration, as if to check that the faces of the men holding her match the hands she knows so well, and then she waves to the small crowd watching them, who titter and laugh and wave back to watch the three of them. Satisfied with her audience, she then turns to plant a kiss on John’s cheek with a proclamation of ‘MWAH!’ before promptly turning to deliver the same to Sherlock, whose huge grin and squeezed-shut eyes as she bestows it upon him is worth far more than anything beneath the Christmas tree.

She turns it into a bit of a spectacle after that, returning her attention to their (mostly) enraptured guests and promptly smushing her hand to her mouth before waving it outwards, her own extravagant way of blowing kisses towards her loyal and willing subjects. ‘MWAH!’

‘MWAH!’ choruses the room, right back, many of them waving their hands at her, charmed (Mostly; Mycroft is rather pointedly hiding in his almost-empty drink) and John hides his huge, only slightly-embarrassed grin in Rosie’s shoulder, exchanges a look with Sherlock who rather seems to be enjoying this scene; who likes to enjoy watching John squirm as his daughter entertains and scintillates, simply by being herself.

By being the best of _them._

‘Put me down,’ Rosie commands and they do just that, watching her resuming her mingling with the adoring public. John reaches out to wrap both his arms around Sherlock’s waist and twines his fingers together behind his back, rests his head against Sherlock’s chest, right over his heart, listens to that calming, steady thump. He hears Sherlock chuckle, gently, feels lips touching his hair, careful hands on his arms, keeping him level – always, _always_ keeping him level.

From across the room, James Sholto catches his eye, raises his glass and tosses him the smallest of winks.

*


End file.
